Always: UNDERGOING REPAIR
by Let's Explode
Summary: undergoing revision and complete reconstruction.
1. One

**Always**

**-  
**

_ I love you, I hate you, I cant live around you. I just cant take anymore; this life of solitude.  
_

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A/N: This is a tribute.. of sorts, also something of a present- it _is _Matt's birthday. I still refuse to acknowledge Mello and Matt's death. I do not own death note :(, so you can't sue me.

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I like to think I'm a not real. A fictional character, a virtual hero, I guess, because the good guys always win in these types of things. There is no 'what if' or 'possibilities' because when you're off in _La-la Land, _everything goes the way it's made to be; the bad guys lose, the good guys win and get the girl, or guy, however you want to see it, either way, the heroes always win.

It's just the conflict that pulls everyone in, the drama, the mystery that craps the whole thing the writer or programmer got going on, because just when you get your heart racing, the conflict ends.

But what's so great about conflict? I mean, in reality, any _sane _person would hate it. Maybe the insane too. There's too much pain and too much tears and effort, but the damned _conflict _would always be there, no matter if you did practically nothing your whole life because that's what makes us so flawed and so 'human'.

Humans suck. I would know, since I'm obviously one myself. I don't mind insulting myself or everything and nothing, because if it's true, then I don't see the point in lying to anyone. Near calls me _honest, _Roger calls me _rude, _L calls me _blunt, _but Mello? He calls me an asshole, or a prick, dick, retard.. the list goes on.

Yeah, I know, he must be _so great. _ Mello's a hypocrite; he isn't exactly a ray of sunshine either. He acts like he stepped on shit or something, I call it his _inferiority complex, _but I never say it to his face. I must be some kind of coward to pull this off, heck, who am I kidding? I _am _a coward.

Look for the guy who has his head down, looking kind of creepy when the light off the PSP, DS or whatever in his hands reflects off his goggles, because he's not risking looking anyone directly in the eye. If you don't see him, that's okay, because sometimes, I don't see him either.

He's me.

Christened as 'Matt' when I was somewhere between five or six, a guy with a _sob story, _but hey, I'm not the only one. I used to live in an orphanage, so it was common. I'm convinced I used to be stalked or something, because while my parents are still alive, they got charged with possession, drug abuse, theft, and hmm, child abuse. Convinced because some British guy with a white mustache just so 'happened' to break down the door to that old apartment with a gun to have them behind bars. Go figure.

My parent's suck along with the other humans, only they suck more. They made me hack and steal from ATM machines, but I'm not here to talk about that.

Now that I think about it, why am I even here at all?

I live in a crappy kind of apartment with Mello, with the wallpaper peeling off and the furniture and bed threadbare, but at least they had hot water in that grimy bathroom. I pay for it all, the water the electricity I use so much of, the food in the fridge- mostly vodka and chocolate- _everything. _It's not much and it's not home, but I'm proud that I'm independent. I don't complain and neither does Mello, surprisingly, because he's spoiled enough to be tempted. I'll just bring it to the fact that he's never here except to eat, shower or yell at me for being too obsessive.

I'm a chain smoker, and when I don't smoke, I use nicotine patches, and when I don't do any of those, I drink too strong black coffee, but all day everyday, I have technology. I'm like Snow White on crack; I don't have animal friends, I have _technology. _And these things are my surrogates; the happy family I never had, the friends I didn't want, the fixes that keep me going, the Mello I used to know.

Mello, the new Mello, mentioned before, that I did nothing, and he's never seen me do anything but sit.

Untrue. I'm working illegally, but he wants me to parade around like some peacock and let myself known? I'm not him. Being a Mafia Boss brought him too high up in his head, and I still want that innocent but angry Mello that I used to know. I think he _knows _things cant always go his way, but he acts like it does. All he ever had to do at Wammy's was show his fist, but it doesn't work with his cronies anymore; all he ever does now, is pull out his gun.

He acts so sure when he does that, his eyes are always blazing and cocky and _confident, _it _hurts,_ because he's not the same. I know he had used the gun before, and he's killed people in more ways than _shooting, _but the fact just doesn't sit with me.

The Mello I used to know hung around me because everyone else was too afraid of him, and I was indifferent. The Mello I used to know still said '_Pardon' _and _'Excuse me' _and damn it, even _'Sorry'. _But he's not the same anymore. He's all leather and danger and adrenaline, much too violent and impulsive than he was before, he's all _motorbikes _and _ladies, _and _alcohol. _

It's like that crucifix he wore was only for show, and that it means nothing to him. He's no saint- I see him differently.

But I never say anything.

I think it's why he still comes back after all this time.

-

-

(.. I don't know if I control me, or he does..)

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(.. I don't know if I can take anymore..)

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Because people never see me as the better. I'm just the guy who's stuck with him. I'm just the guy Mello hangs around with. They call me his lapdog. I'm just.. I'm just Number three. It's all I got for me.

-

I think I've had it with it all. Maybe I'll speak up and speak out, for once in my life.

* * *

I cough slightly, something happening a lot lately. Most likely because I shouldn't be smoking when I'm diagnosed with asthma. I never did use my inhaler before I started my addiction, but I wasn't about to stop yet. Maybe when it's critically bad for me, yeah, then I'll stop.

I'm still surviving life.

A little, teeny tiny step at a time because I'm a lazy type of wimp. _Don't take a risk if it's not worth it, _I always say, but Mello, the Mello I used to know, says _When there's a risk involved, then it's always worth taking._

I'm not him, but I know we're both right.

The hinges of the front door protest loudly as it opens, and Mello enters in like he owns this bust up, lame place. He does his routine, kicking his boots and they land haphazardly somewhere across the room, he shrugs off his leather jacket and leaves it on the floor, so this means I'll have to have _that _cleaned again. He marches to the fridge and pulls out the last of the fifty chocolate bars I had to get for him just five days ago and gives me a look, brandishing his bar in the air, so this means I'll have to run to the store.. _again. _I was already given this membership deal, me being a regular customer and all.

I sigh discreetly. The things I do for him. _Why _do I do these things when I don't benefit from them? He makes me clean, dry clean and waste my green. They rhymed because I think I'm a poet. I sound like a greedy idiot, but _honestly; Twenty Five Hundred Dollars _a _month? _

He sits beside me and looks curiously as I bring down another firewall on my laptop. It's so easy to pretend I don't know, and I'm not listening, hearing or seeing everything, and I make a good spy and information gatherer because of this. Maybe he thinks I don't notice, maybe he thinks I'm too absorbed in what I do, just like the few others who'd ever seen me before. I'm a nobody and I keep it that way.

No one's going to cry at _my _funeral. I know. I'm not even going to leave a will.

"Matt," Mello talks to me, the fourth time in total this week. He thinks I can't think with my supposed attention on the laptop, but he doesn't know he's wrong. L mentioned to me, more than once actually, about my ability to focus on many things at once, like advanced multitasking or something. He also said that if I put more effort in my studies instead of _myself, _I'd be number one.

I was the first person to know L died in Wammy's. It was hard, but I hacked into his own laptop-out of habit- for it all, and everything was there; his evidence, his files, _everything, _and I had them copied to my own disk. Mello and Near think I lived as a hacker for these five years, and they're partially right.

I investigated.. and called it quits. Deleted everything I knew.

Because I was doing _exactly _what L wanted.

Succeeding him as _L._

I never wanted to be. I never wanted to be a detective either.

Another thing L mentioned.. I think far too much to be healthy. So this is why Mello's obviously annoyed with me right now, so annoyed he flipped my laptop _shut, _which was really stepping far across this imaginary line I made. He shakes me roughly, hissing, "Asshole, listen to me!"

"Hm?" I question, and try to shrug away his hands from my shoulders. I don't like the feel of someone pushing me down physically, rather than mentally.

Mello snarls angrily, because there really never _was _another emotion other than _anger _when it came to the blonde. "Finally! Why couldn't you just listen to me for once?!"

_I do, _I wanted to say. _I implant cameras and hack into things for you. I listen to your rants on Near, about getting better and being first, I stick by you for no reason and you put up with me because you have no one else, though it's obvious you don't like me at all. _I'm a tool for his own personal use, is all. I'm here just to help him beat Near. Instead, I cock my head aside like a fool, and I ask, "Yeah?"

I get on every one of his nerves. Just like everyone did, but while Near sets them ablaze, I think I embed myself there, and I'm just a pest. He lets me go after he bites his tongue to prevent himself from screaming out loud. So he settles for just throwing his chocolate bar at me, and I catch it reflexively, accidentally and he's angrier.

"Fuck, you prick!" he not-so-suddenly yells at me. "You lazy ass, I wanted you to set your bugs in SPK and _watch them! _And you're _here _doing _something so fucking pointless!_" Mello's (aquamarine.. _blue..) _eyes are throwing daggers in my way, but I'm too busy trying to regain feeling in my right shoulder.

I jerk my thumb into the only bedroom in this apartment, the one that used to be mine before he came, and I _still don't complain. _"They're already bugged, you watch them. They're boring." As am I.

He's surprised by my defiance, and I like that i caught him off guard. The blond is standing now, and he's, surprise surprise, _mad. _His breathing is heavy and he pulls at his hair. "I _gave _you an order! You don't tell me what to do! _You _were supposed to fucking _spy _on them! _Easy like shit!"_

The words fly out of my mouth before I could stop them. "So why don't you do it? Easy like shit, right? Shouldn't be a challenge for you."

His eyes narrow. "Are you insinuating that I am an _idiot?_! I dare you to say that again."

I was treading on very, _very, _dangerous grounds, but I like the steady rush of adrenaline, because it's so refreshing and new, so much more different than nicotine. "I'll say it as many times as you want me to. Why can't _you _do it, then?" Near was, after all, what _Mello_ wanted to overcome. Why did I have to do his bidding? I'm tired of being referred to as a dog.

"Shut the fuck up, Matt." he hisses, and pulls out his semi-automatic and presses the barrel to my brow. I don't stiffen, I don't relax. I simply do not react. "I'll kill you."

I keep my gold-tinted eyes on him rather than on the gun, and I tell him to do it then, since he might as well get it over with. He's done this to me before, but I never speak like this with him. I don't know what to feel or how to react so I don't. I don't know if he will just shoot me, because Mello never backs down from a challenge.

But he still needs me...

.. right?

"You're useless," he tells me, and he stalks off into the bedroom and slam the door loudly, a display of his temper. I look down to my laptop, now a small scratch on its surface, and I switch it on, sighing quietly.

_Only to your eyes, Mello, _I say inwardly. _I am._

-

Review, please?


	2. Two

**Always**

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_I just can't take anymore, this life of solitude._

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_

He's trying to prove my existence isn't needed. He's trying to show that he can do things without me, and he can.. to an extent. If I know Mello, and I _know _I do, he's in that single bedroom as of right now, staring holes into his own laptop where I set up his 'top-priority' _Near stalking. _

It kind of stings, knowing that _Near _holds Mello down, takes the first and last things on his mind when Mello should just _stop. _It's already bad enough knowing that _innocent _Mello I knew was trampled and stomped down, and even flushed down a dirty toilet by his own new facade, and that he's dominating and domineering, and he's changed so damn much. I want him back. I want _my Mello _back.

Fucking Mafia.

Mello's always been somewhat independent, not as coddled as Near had been at Wammy's. But Mello's also always needed some place to keep him at bay or give him his wants, he'd had Wammy's to do that before, now the mafia, but he's almost always had me.. _Right? _If he's wearing a bravado, he should just tear it down, because he's not proving anything other than _He's an Ass _to me, and he disappears more than ever.

I should just be happy that he comes back at some point.

I'm just waiting until he leaves again and doesn't return. I remember four years ago, waking up to see him _gone, _and the bedroom window was left open and cold wind blew in- it was winter and he was _out there_, and Mello _left _me without so much as a goodbye. His things were haphazardly thrown all over the bedroom floor, only a spare few shirts missing, and that old chest where we kept our savings was emptied. And I always thought that he wouldn't leave me, and neither Near nor Roger told me that he at least _hesitated. _I thought I was worth saying goodbye to.

And Mello never called, or contacted me, not _anyone. _He'd only vanished for that entire four years and _God knows what _he's done to end up.. _like this. _I haven't seen my best friend since. I never see _my _Mello anymore.

I learned then never to excite myself. Life is disappointing and predictable. I learned to just take things as it is, and to not expect so much. Come what may and all that jazz. . The circle of life, I guess. Life is ruled over by _Science._ They had a meaning all laid out for you; _Life was a process in which _blah-blah. It's all overrated. . I don't question life. We just exist until we don't, simple as that.

* * *

The fridge is empty of vodka and chocolate -I hadn't bothered to restock- and I haven't done any dry cleaning or chores for almost a fortnight now. I have more cash than I ever did, and I spoiled myself buying this new game system, complete with accessories, but feels all wrong. I should be happy, right? I swear I _am _happy, it's probably just hiding underneath all that feeling of _loneliness, _I know I am. I swear I'm content with being ignored more than usual on a daily basis; it's not like it hasn't happened before.

It was another thing all _Third potential _successors had to do back at Wammy's, carried out since the first generation, and maybe all the other generations to come. We don't do much but sit and pay attention to the teacher's in the classroom through one of the many cameras the mansion had been installed with. Number Threes weren't allowed to leave their rooms, Number Threes are confined there because our existence is to be kept _secret, _except to L, Wammy, Roger, and the first two potential successors themselves.

The Third doesn't exist, as far as anyone in that too big house is concerned. Because third isn't as good as first or second. The third is just a spare in case either of the first two did something so _stupid _as to lash out as a murderer.. or commit suicide. L had made sure not to let himself short of conveniently orphaned genii again. Someone like L cant afford to make the same mistake twice.

_You did, _I say to him mentally, _Look at us, L. _

Because Near's ready to take the position of L, manipulating those of less importance like pawns on his own game of chess with Kira, and he just might be winning. Because Mello wants to challenge this new L and surpass Near, just to be the best, just to go against the world and have things done his way. Just to be number one. And me? I think I'm drowning.

History always has this uncanny ability to repeat itself. I see a warped resemblance between Near, Mello and me, and the LAB prodigal children themselves, but I don't want to end up contemplating suicide and end up murdering myself, I don't want Near to die of a heart attack. And as much as Mello's a criminal now, as much as people might think he deserves Kira's so-called justice..

-

_(..I don't want anything to happen to him.)_

_-_

_-_

_(..Even if I can't see him anymore..)_

_-_

_-_

I'm crossing my fingers, just in case.

-

I'm picking on my Chinese takeout, and I really _should _eat, having nothing for two days now. It's just a quirk of mine not to eat or sleep when I get motivated, _rare _as the occurrence is. But that's not what's plaguing me; it's the fact that I'm bored with everything, with myself, and I feel like there's.. how do I explain it? Like there's something missing here. I swear it's not Mello, because I _know _I'm content with his actions, everything.

I'm okay, really. I'm okay.

But when I stare at the other red and white container of takeout I bought him, still unopened and already too cold, to the door of the bedroom where he's keeping himself, I wonder why I even bother like I do.

_Misery likes company, Mello, _I want to say, and this confuses me. Didn't I want him to leave me alone? Didn't I want to leave him in the hands of the mafia, and hope for the best? I sigh in irritation, because while I _know _more than the average human, and while I can fit maybe billions of worthless pieces of information into my too active brain and understand, I _don't _understand. I don't know why I'm doing the things I do, I don't know myself the way I used to.

And I don't know anything other than to _compel myself forward, _to _do what Mello says. _Just like a machine with specialized programming, just like a dog.

My small appetite disappears completely, and I let my food go to waste, throwing it into the trash and settle myself on the sofa and makeshift bed of mine. I randomly put on a game and easily switch the contraption on, letting my gloved fingers get comfortable with the feel of the cool plastic console. I sit back lazily into the worn furniture, lighting my cigarette as the opening credits came on.

It was _Mario. _With the annoying oldies boop-de-beep tune and mushroom stomping, and the repeating failure in saving _Princess Peach _from the right tower. Mario's an idiot, but that's what keeps the game going for as long as it does. _Classics, _you never _could _beat them, could you?

I take a long drag of my cigarette, holding the air in my lungs before letting it all out, and I release a large cloud of smoke that makes me smile, just a little. I feel like reminiscing, back when I had my first cigarette.

I'm just glad that _my _Mello has never ratted me out for all the things I did; making bombs, puling an all-nighter for three days straight, playing video games until the break of dawn, and not for smoking either. I know Mello must have some sort of past connecting with my habit in some way, because the first few times he's caught me back then, he stiffens with a horrified kind of expression, and he leaves the room, telling me to keep a window open.

He doesn't do that now. He just gets angrier.

-

I must be masochistic or something, to abuse and poison myself.

-

The cheerful Mario (I'm aware I'm a freak) message tone of _Let's Go! _Rings and echoes in the apartment, but it doesn't shock me out of my hazy stupor. Lazily -because there was no other way I do it- I pull my cell phone out and wonder who the heck it is that knows my number, because there was no one else other than me, Mello, and Ne- Oh, it was Near. What the hell was so important as to leave me a message at eleven at night? Or was he so sure I wouldn't be asleep? Maybe Near didn't care, the bastard.

It read: _Hello, Matt._

Well, if that message didn't suck, I don't know what did. I quickly text a '_What do you want, Near?'_

_I'd appreciate it greatly if Matt would stop hacking our cameras to watch me, _Near replied, _And also, I require Matt's assistance._

Arrogant little sheep, I didn't feel like dealing with him. I rub my temples and dial his number with my other free hand, pressing the device to my ear when he picked up after two precise rings. "I don't watch you," I informed, "And what makes you so sure I'll help you anyway? I'm supposed to hate you."

I can almost imagine Near's lips twitching in amusement. _"Mello is still with Matt then. How is he?"_

"What's it to you?" I return, fighting off a yawn as I put out the butt of the cigarette and tossed it into the ash tray. My eyes dart to the bedroom door, and I hope Mello's not listening in. Bah, he must be. The words _Curiosity killed the cat _was never enough of a warning to him. He _killed _that poor cat, damn it, with nine bullets for that real generous _nine lives _it once had.

"_He is well, I assume," _Near's voice comes in again, and I think he's just ignoring my not-so-nice replies to amuse himself, as well as to irritate me. They all always say Near's mature, but I know better than to believe people just because they say it's true. _"But I really do need Matt's assistance, if he's willing."_

But then Mello comes out of the bedroom looking a little more crazed than usual, pin-straight hair now messy, and bags hang under his eyes. Like he's been tossing and turning all night, like he's had a nightmare or like he hadn't had a decent sleep for so long. And I don't care, because he doesn't care.

Ghandi, I'm aware, had a point when he said _An eye for an eye will leave the world blind, _but what am I doing quoting dead people for? Then again; if the world _were _blind, I actually think it would be a better place. We're all supposed to be equals, right? I hardly care that I sound like a monk because, if we _were _supposedly, _equals,_ maybe _then, _they'd start to realize. Maybe _Mello _would start to realize it too, that no one's superior.

Quickly I murmur "Later," into the phone, shutting it and I let it fall from my hand onto the couch, and focus on playing Mario again. I almost forget that I'm supposed to be not paying attention to him because I actually _stiffen _when he steps in front of the television screen with fists clenched and and scowl gracing his lips- the perfect picture of defiance.

I hear my character's _dying _music coming to play, and I barely see the screen reading _Continue? _Because _Mello _was in my way, like he always seemed to be, in one way or the other. I never mind before, but this _angry _side of me I hadn't known I possessed; it's gnawing at me, grating in my skin and I need to speak my mind, and not cower and submit. Because it's like he controls me no matter what, and it annoys me, and scares the shit out of me, because I want to be my own person.

I don't want to be his lapdog.

I don't want to be anyone's lapdog.

I don't want to be a _fucking _lapdog at all.

This inward chanting gives me a little courage to murmur, "You made me die. Get out of the way." Bland, monotonous. Am I not capable of sounding anything other than rude, cocky, bored or dead? I put out my second cigarette, stubbing it in the ashtray and bending it out of habit, and I know he cant see a single flicker of my eyes, because the lighting's bad. He doesn't know if I'm staring at the fag, or at the floor, or at the television, or if I'm looking at him.

I am. And I don't like what I see. He's still wearing leather and that _crucifix _he doesn't pray with. He isn't barefoot like he always used to be, his fingernails aren't not painted black, he doesn't look carefree or even _smiling, _not like the Mello I used to know, he's not my Mello. I look at him, I look through him, and I don't see him. I don't think he sees me either.

But _this _Mello, this different one, had the gall to kick the wireless console out of my hands since he couldn't yank it's wire. He's so sure that it's okay to do what he did, and that I'll do what he says, because that's who I am. And I hate it, and I've had enough.

He crosses his arms and looks at me expectantly, "Well?"

"Well what." It came out more of a statement than a question. I didn't want to deal with this, facade wearing, this stranger, this _imposter, _but he has me listening, answering, speaking my thoughts more than I ever did to anyone else, not even _my _Mello. I blame it on him, because I _hate _him. "You have to be more specific."

His eyes look more bruised when he glares at me like that. "So you're not going to apologize." he deadpans, but I don't want to hear this. I pull another cigarette from my pack of _Malboro _and let it hang between my lips, unlit. "Look, Matt. I've had enough-"

Oh, _he's _had enough? What about what I thought? Is he so conceited as to not think of what anyone else thinks? Does he think himself superior, because the way he addresses me, the way he carries himself says so. He takes shit from no one, but this is complete, utter _shit. _

"_You've _had enough." I snort derisively, running my gloved hand through my haircut needing mane. "Yeah, sure. You've had enough. But me? I'm not going to apologize for something I didn't do."

He hisses, "You fucker! You were _told_ to watch the SPK!"

And here, he treats me like a dog again. I'm going to bite. "You're still on about that? I don't take orders from you." I say dispassionately, my head inclining to steadily meet his burning gaze, and I think I can feel lightning spark around us furiously. "I'm not going to do what you say, just because _you tell me to."_

Mello looks a little confused, and I swear I can see that little child for a second before he's gone again. Trampled and crushed like the butt of my own fag. "What are you talking about?" But this question was supposed to sound like he _cares, _right? That he actually gives a fuck to what I _think? _I'm not brainless and as to just think so. Because if he doesn't know, then it's not worth the fight.

"You know what?" I ask lightly, peeling myself off the couch to stand straight. I'm way past the line of being _intimidated _just because he has a gun_. _I adjust my fur vest and give him a half-smile. I hate that it comes out awkward, because I've only smiled like that a handful of times in my life. Sad, but that was the way I worked.

He doesn't reply my rhetorical question. My striped socks are slowly disappear as step into my boots and take my keys off the kitchen counter-top, but the expression on his face was something akin to... what, _fear? Apprehension? Worry? _I must be delusional, because this new _Mello, _the freak imposter doesn't _feel _these things. I know by personal experience.

"Where are you going?" his voice is stern, like an owner scolding his pet for misbehaving. Like a parent would speak to a stubborn child. Not like a friend, _never _a friend. Sometimes, I wonder if he was my friend at all.

I shrug, "I've had enough of this." and I don't answer his question. "I'm out."

He looks a little stricken, but only for a mere second or two, because he wasn't going to lower his pride, his composure for something as _lowly _as a _dog. _So he laughs in return, shaking his head, but his eyes still show betray him. They say he's not okay with this, and I don't enjoy seeing him like this.

It's necessary. I want to live for once.

His tone, when he speaks, is shaky, but he sounds amused, not like his eyes. This Mello _lies, _another thing to add on my list about this Mello I don't know. "You think I'll miss you or something?" he chuckles, giving me a wild grin that looks a little _forced, _but convincing enough for me to believe he really means it. "You'll be doing me a favor."

I shrug again, and this time I don't say a word.

Turning away, I exit past the door, and pretend not to hear that last whisper of "_I don't need you."_

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_If you're convinced. _I whisper back in my head. _I don't need you either._

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_A/N: _Thanks for reviewing, PM-ing and the alerts. :)

Now, review. Yes, that is an order. ;)


	3. Three

_A/N: Yeah, this was supposed to be posted tomorrow, but I kinda have something on. :P So I'm spoiling you; enjoy your slightly early update!_

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**Always**

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_It's all been bottled up until now, as I walk out the door all I can hear is the sound.._

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_

I hate it when people stare. They should all just mind their own businesses and go on with life like they usually do, because they never needed _me_ in their lives, and they aren't going to start now. So what's the use of wasting three seconds looking at a stranger you most likely won't see ever again? Completely pointless, and that's just another reason why people suck.

Still it annoys me that when I walk by, they all look up from what they're doing. What, never seen a goggle-wearing freak before? Was it my face? Was it what I wore? Was it the way I walked? Hell if I know. I just want to blend in to the background, I want to be unnoticeable.

And sometimes? Sometimes, I just want to disappear. Like the dinosaurs that got wiped out from existence, but that sounded too painful. Maybe then, maybe like all the virtual crooks and baddies in my videogames; they dissipate in smoke or simply vanish somehow, and no one ever bothers to think about where they go. Because they're just part of the game and they're easy to get rid of, and they won't be missed because they hinder you from the final boss, or the goal.

I'm not a bad person, but I always see myself as one of the virtual minions. I'd be slain and killed by _Kira, _because he haunts my nightmares sometimes, and he does it so well. In my nightmares, I see L falling to the floor, I see Near's hand fall slowly from his hair.. but when it's about Mello, they're always so much more vivid. I see him choking on his last chocolate bar, I see him clutching where his heart is, I see him bleeding..and sometimes.. I see him just _burning. _Engulfed in flames, but he doesn't scream because he's already _gone._

I always wake up in cold sweat.

There's always a rare time where Mello's right there in front of me, _my _Mello, and he asks me what's wrong. And as much as I hate the taste, he forces hot chocolate in my hands and tells me to swallow it down slowly, and I do only because _I get to see my Mello again. _I remember telling him about those nightmares once, and he gives me an awkward smile, and he tells me, "I'm not going anywhere just yet."

It's the 'yet' that worries me. But by then, Mello would already be as irrationally composed as always, and he pulls back away from me. The smile is gone, and his back turns to face me. And then he tells me to _grow a pair, _and _my _Mello is gone again. And the guy walking back to the room is just another hollow of what he used to be and he doesn't say goodnight.

I shouldn't be afraid of Kira; he doesn't know about the underworld me and Mello are involved with, unless Mello just blows _that _up. I should just find it in me to confirm that who I suspect is _Kira, _just might actually be it.I shouldn't be afraid of that so-called God, but I am. He's too unpredictable. He's too out of control, and he kills just like _breathing._

_(It just hurts to know that Mello can almost be described in the same way.)_

So I resort to videogames to keep me at bay. Because _I_ predict what happens next, _I_ tell what happens next, and I _control _everything. Reality works the way I want it to, and I get to kill who I want, do all the damned stupid things I want to do and there's no remorse biting me, and there's no one to stop me. Mello used to call me an _incurable game addict, _and still does, but I say I'm just living like I want to, and doing all I want to do. He doesn't understand, because I think all he sees is just a couch potato who can't get his ass of the seat for squat. He never says he _doesn't _know, because he's just like everyone else- fucked high and mighty and they think they're better than every damned person on the planet, but he also thinks he can see me _so clearly._

_-_

_-_

Do you, Mello?

-

-

Because I don't think so.

* * *

I think I'm falling; like being swallowed down a tight throat or maybe like the darkness that hides your sight when you fall unconscious. My heart is hammering like there's no tomorrow, my hands are sweating uncomfortably against the leather of my gloves and I feel like shit, but there's no actual reason to feel like this.. other than that I'm _outdoors._

I just might be agoraphobic or something, maybe just a little. Or maybe I'm just a little too paranoid; the fresh air is a little _too _much, and there's too many noises; the speeding of cars, the yapping away of people, the _honking-_ it's just _suffocating._

I like the small apartment I lived in, I like being kept in four walls and stuffy air, tight places..It's all I've ever known, after all. And the outdoors is just too much of a difference to that.

If anyone knew, if _Mello _knew that it's so easy to break me down- just like that, I don't know what I'd do. I pride myself in being unreadable, and that as much as I'm _there, _only a small, quiet few know a thing or two about me besides my obvious bad habits. But they don't know my stupid fear, and I see it as a little of the breathing space I need.

.. Too bad _that _is pretty much thrown out the window. People are staring at me, and I want to tell them to _Fuck off, damnit. _

I rub my temples and chew my lip furiously, a half-ass attempt to fight off that stupid hunger I feel. I keep my head down as I walk down the street and ignore the ache I feel from straining my leg muscles too much. I know I should work out more, really, but I'm not motivated enough, as always. The first sign I see in bright red neon lights, but I don't bother reading it and just enter through the double glass doors, a welcoming chime following soon after. The interior of the store was just the same as ever; the polished countertop and cashier, gears and widgets kept behind clear glass, and the seedy looking dude greeting me with a dutiful, "Yo. You back here again, eh?"

_Well, obviously, _was my first thought but I don't speak aloud, instead opting for just cocking my head aside, never been one for verbal exchange to weird strangers unless absolutely necessary. He chuckles and grins wide, a set of yellowed teeth showing as he says raspily, "You've been expected. You'll find who you want at the back."

*

It's almost as if I'm on manual for once. Everything's so painfully boring but adrenaline-rushing at the same time. It's weird, how I walked through that door, _my _bedroom door and I wasn't kicked out. There's this small pang of what I don't know just right where my heart is, but I blame it on my asthma. Come to think of it, I've been blaming a _hell _lot of things on my asthma these days.

Like how I don't have to wait an hour for my own turn for the bathroom, like how I don't need to get _chocolate _anymore, like how I can't charge my PSP because I left my charger at that old apartment I kicked myself out of. Like.. like how I can't see Mello again.

I know I'm just being melodramatic, but damn it, I want to prove I can do just _fine _without him. That I _won't _be going _there _until he cracks or begs me to or something, and I know that most likely will never be happening. You can't blame a guy for dreaming, right? I want to prove it to him, that he _needs _me and he can't do things like he always does without me around, if I really _was _important to him anymore.

I used to pride myself for that.

I'm Matt, and I'm more independent than I ever was. I'm going to live my way now, and I'll need new equipment now because of my stupid rush to get out of there, and _shit, _that'll cost. I'll get myself a new apartment, when I'm up to it. Something less shitty so I can rub it in his face. I'll get filthy rich off of the illegal money I'm making, get a name in the underworld like _he _did; I'll be like the stereotypical powerful guy.. without the leather. With the thick red robe and fuzzy slippers as I sip black coffee by the fireplace- yeah, the works. With my hair combed back, if it stayed that way, and a smoke pipe in my mouth. Just minus the mustache, whores and maids. After all, it would make things way too overdone than it already is, not to mention, I'll feel _ridiculous._

Like I feel sometimes, when I'm with him.

I groan as I pull my goggles over my eyes again, slowly moving to a sitting position on the _too _comfortable bed. It makes me feel swallowed, because by now I'm used to the lumpy couch that kept my back stiff. This bed gives me a full eight hours' sleep and I don't wake up because I'm having _nightmares _again. And damn it if I sound like some kind of _sissy._

I walk out of the bedroom and descend down the steep stairway, the loud clanking of my boots against the metal flooring alerting me more and more with each step. The sounds is echoing, just echoing in this barely furnished rent I semi-familiarized. It's always too cold here and I could see my breath fog up in front of me, and I feel my spine tingling almost numbly. "Glitch?" I call out to the empty space, "You there?"

Not that I was expecting a response, but I got it. The sound of metal grating against metal suddenly, and a loud string of choice curse words and frustrated pounding. I'm a little amused by this, because if anything, I'm a go-with-the-flow type of guy, and now that I know where that workaholic friend of mine is, tch, I let myself follow the noise.. to another open door, again of metallic material, to some kind of _warped _garage.

"Shit, Matt," Glitch hisses by the work table, massaging a sore wrist with a wrench under her arm- which I assume is what she'd dropped- but a smirk is playing at her lips. "Give a girl some warning; you scared the hell out of me."

And now my smile comes out awkward again and I shrug, not really knowing what to say but a simple "Sorry," like I try to stop myself from saying when I'm with _Mello, _because _Sorry _was _stupid. _It's that self made policy of Near's to say sorry when you do something wrong, and Mello always says that sometimes _sorry's _not good enough. I know Mello's right, but I wont let himself the pleasure of knowing I agree with him anymore.

Glitch pulls back her hair behind an ear, I can see her clearly again. Glitch is looking at me weirdly, probably biting her tongue or something, but I can still see she looks uncomfortable, and this meant bad.. Because Glitch is hardly ever uncomfortable.. unless if she had a sort of stalker or psycho. Nah, even then, she'd probably just shock them with her cable wires, and I won't question if she's got the guts to fry someone to crisps, because I see that scary-ass face she wears sometimes… and it looks a hell lot like Mello's general expression.

But it just makes my chest throb again –it's asthma, I swear it- that she's almost a splitting image of Mello; the leather she wore, the gloves, her language and temper. But at least _she _lets me have my own opinion, and unlike Mello, she treats me like a friend. Not a dog, a _friend. _And I'm guarding myself, because I don't want to expect much, and I don't want to get too close with anyone, not even Mello, not even Glitch, not even _myself, _because in the end? I only get disappointed.

"Thanks," I say, just to break the silence. "For letting me stay here these past few days."

She's frowning, tracing imaginary circles on the surface of the table and she's staring off somewhere in front of her. "Don't mention it; you stay as long as you want," and her eyes, the same shade of my own, dart to me, "If you still want to. You make it sound like you're saying goodbye." She sighs, a cat-like grin on her face that I know is forced, because I wear the same expression on my own face. "I know I'm a bitch, and my company _sucks, _but-"

She's rambling, and though I know that like Mello, she _hates _to be cut off, I still do it. "So what were you doing? You sounded kind of busy.. anything I can help with?" Yeah, I'm supposed to be lazy, and I'm supposed to want to avoid being taken advantage of. I still feel a little guilty for burdening her and shit. Because _I'm _supposed to be the worst company in the history of mankind, damn it.

Glitch looks at me slyly, and the awkwardness is gone because she's excited again. She uncharacteristically giggles girlishly as she takes me by the sleeve of my shirt and drags me to the back of the too big garage. "You gotta see baby," she whispers to me loudly.

"You got a kid?" I choke, because as far as _I _know, Glitch isn't involved with anyone, and damn it, she's _seventeen! _How in the hell did that-

"Asshole," she smacks me lightly, rolling her eyes, "Not _that _type of baby." She lets me go when we stop in front of a large tarp, taking the shape of a.. _oh.. _it's _that _type of baby. She pulls the sheet off quickly with a grin, and as if on queue, the place lights up. I sort of expected some dramatic music too, because it's cheesy along with the rest of everything.

I think I'm in awe. Because when I touch the bright red hood of the car, it's smooth and cool, and I think I'm hearing angels sing. Yeah, I'm lame, so sue me. Shit, I remind myself that it's just a piece of overgrown metal, just like everything here is, but I still stare. Damn human instinct.

"It's a 1970 SS Chevy Camaro," Glitch tells me offhandedly, caressing the car with a proud gleam in her eyes. "I got her in scraps, you know? Almost took me a year to get her all together and running." I hear her sigh this time, but I can't recognize the tone, only that to me, it sounded almost… sad? "Custom leather interior, GPS, surround sound system and automatic gearing.. She's my masterpiece. She's _Baby."_

"Damn," I whistle at the authentic piece. "You've outdone yourself, Glitch."

She shrugs, "I had to do _something_ with my insomnia." Her gloved hand slips off the hood quickly, as if it's hot ice to her touch. "So.. Matt? Do you want to try her out?" She tosses me the keys, dangling off of an 'M' keychain, but I don't think much into it. She's grinning again when she sees me slide in quickly into the driver's seat, and she takes the passenger's side. "By the way, Baby's yours now."

I think my eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, because I can feel them almost bugging out of their sockets. And I'm choking on my own spit, because I'm overwhelmed by this.. this _gift-giving_ thing. Because at Wammy's, I've only been given gifts a total of three times, twice from _L _and a once from Mello, but even before I was orphaned.. I never had much, and this? This was a little too much. It made me feel a rush of inferiority for some reason; I think it's because I look like an idiot and I'll even _sound _like one if I open my mouth to reject the gift. Not to mention I'll sound like a suck-up prick or an ass. I don't want to say anything but a speechless sounding _Thank you, _and I do, because.. It's just.. It's..

_Wow. _

I notice quickly how she didn't bluff earlier; the leather is waxed and everything's so peachy pristine, and when I switch on the ignition, Baby purrs like a kitten. Beside me, Glitch presses on her remote and the garage door opens. And I don't hesitate to just speed out like a maniac.

I don't put on my seatbelt, because I like to live dangerously. Heck, if being a professional hacker, so-called friend and _puppy_ of a mafia boss, and the actual friend of an engineering thief wasn't dangerous enough, then I don't know what was. All that matters to me, just this time, is that over the ache at my chest, I'm actually _happy, _for once. Without _him._

_-_

_You see, Mello? I don't need you._

_-_

_A/N: Well, this was more of a filler, so I found it kinda _boring. _Glitch is just a minor character, so don't freak out if you don't like her or anything._ _I'm disappointed with myself D: But more Mello awesomeness in the next chapter_, _because he's a main character, damn it. And thanks for the reviews, PMs, hits, favs and alerts!!!_

_Now _REVIEW!! _Review my little minions!! _*cough* _I mean, _readers. :P


	4. Four

**Always**

_-_

_I hate you, I can't get around you. _

_-_

_-_

Mello's kissed me before. Once. I doubt he even remembers it; we've only been like, what, seven? It isn't long, but though all this _death _and _drama _and fucking _Kira, _I start to think that it's been eons. In my memories it's all golden and a little foggy, like an old movie –and it's weird because I haven't started wearing tinted goggles back then.

Either way, from what I know, it happened when Mello snuck into my room for the twenty seventh time that month, because he seems to like coming to me and my lame company, even if when Roger found out he'd been there, he'd be given _detention _or something. But Mello, _my _Mello, never seemed to mind back then.

"_We're best friends, Matt!" _I remember him telling me.

He was smiling, that genuine smile I never see anymore, and he just randomly stomped on one foot, and he said, _"Matty, you're mine, okay?_" and we were _kids, _and it was all innocent; the rainbows and sunshine kind of era where you could forget that your parents sucked so easily. And that Mello just came across the room in all his three foot something glory and I remember smelling hot chocolate in his breath before he pecked me on the cheek.

And when I asked why, he shrugged, saying it was a custom greeting from where he came. But he'd been lying, because Mello wasn't _French _nor _Russian _or any other country I think might have done that. And he's never kissed me before until then, and he's never kissed me again.

But what makes me a little nervous is remembering how my cheek seemed to have what I call 'tingles' that day. And just thinking about it makes me smile a little, which is a little pathetic, damn it. Because while I know I used to look up to Mello, and that he had been the closest thing I ever let near me before.. and that he used to know me more than I knew myself.. he's not the same anymore.

And he probably won't change, because he's impulsive, and he'll never think back on these things because to him, life is a one-way kind of street; once it happens, it happens, and there's no escape for the consequences. There's no escape or twist like there always seems to be in fairytales, where the prince would take the princess away on a white horse and ride off into the sunset –and it always happens on a sunset-, and the castle is always conveniently in that direction. _The works, _because it's supposed to be romantic.

I don't understand why adults insist on lying to their children; filling them up with all this _gooey _stories where people fall in love at first sight, and make them believe that someday they'll find their princess, or maybe their prince would come to them and just drag them off because they have nothing else to live for. And the happy hope-filled children would mature and hate everything as much as I do.

I think I'm the antagonist in my own story; like the Scrooge in _Christmas_, the Grinch, or something. But I'm not expecting ghosts or spirits or whatever to come 'save' me or teach me a lesson, because I'm weak-willed to _no one _but Mello, and they can't change who I am.. no matter how much they threaten me with hell. I'm probably given a first-class ticket to _that _place, anyway.

-

_Because life is a one-way kind of street. _

-

* * *

My gloved hand clutches tightly where my heart beats, and it's just hammering away rapidly, I can almost hear it's rhythm in my ears. I think my blood is coursing through my veins like a river with a strong current, because all around me, I just see blurs and spots of color. My head is spinning, and I gather air in my lungs so fast before I lose my breath completely.

I start another coughing fit, throat itching, it feels like it's almost on fire. I shake and tears gather in my eyes but I don't cry, because it gives away more weaknesses than I need to give. My lungs feel so constricted and asphyxiated. And for once in my life, I feel claustrophobic.

It's not a nice feeling.

And I need my inhaler damn it, but being the fucking idiot I am, I left it a fortnight ago back at my- _Mello's _apartment and my asthma's just getting worse by the hour. I'm wheezing badly, and it's just sad that my breaths come in harsh pants and they're short, because I'm struggling.. _struggling. _

I should just stop asking for trouble and quit smoking. I mean, my actual reason behind smoking is _stupid, _and not enough to be called a reason anyway, not anymore- it's just something I do now. But still, it'll be easier said than done, since I've been doing this since Mello left..since I was _thirteen, _and I guess back then, it's been serving me as a kind of escape.

-

_Because I always seem to need an escape._

_-_

I decide to put out the cigarette, just to start. I'm not the type as to need books like _How to: Quit Smoking _or anything like that, because to me, almost everything is in the mind. You won't stop unless you're _that _motivated. And I'm not just yet. But still, I'll be needing my inhaler, because I'm still suffering from claustrophobia and _lung-constricting, _and I won't go to the local clinic, or a pharmacy, because they ask too many questions and hand out _pamphlets _and make me pay the money I seriously lack right now.

I'll be going to the lion's den. I'll be spit and clawed at like some kind of chew toy, because _he_'s irrational and violent. Unless I have the sadistic desire to make myself lose breath and lose consciousness, and I'm _seriously _contemplating it, I'll have to return to the apartment.

I'm a fucking coward for feeling uneasy to see him again.. _If_ I see him again.

*

I close the door to my (_my) _Camaro like she might break, and I don't care if she's just a piece of metal. She's _my _Baby, and I want her picture perfect. I'm in the basement parking lot where the light flickers a little eerily, and I think that someone should just throw in the dramatic music to make the scene here more complete. Damn drama.

The air in the elevator is welcomingly stuffy, and the faded wallpaper, posters and advertisements are familiar to me. But the one stuck to the elevator door is a little mocking; a _Smoking Causes Cancer _poster in bright red bolded letters, and the universal picture of a cigarette crossed out in red is there. I want to tear it off, and scream _"I know, alright?!" _to whoever had the gall to scorn me like this.

If it weren't for me and my smoking, I wouldn't _be _in this little elevator awaiting hell. But that third word on that poster –_Cancer- _just makes my stomach churn a little, and I admit I'm worried. Call me paranoid, but paranoia is just one of the things I've got going on for me.

I hear a happy _ding _and the metal doors open from each side. I just make it my personal mission to get this over and done with quickly, and I all but march to the same door I walked out of not too long ago. I don't knock, it _was _my place before, wasn't it? And hell if I feel even a _little _respectful right now. I use my key and turn the knob none too quietly, because I don't care anymore.

What hits me first is that almost everything looks the same; that single pillow of mine is still on the couch, my laptop and wires are still haphazardly placed on the table, and I swear I smell coffee in the kitchenette, which surprises me, because Mello doesn't drink it. Is it so wrong to feel like a stranger in your own home, even though practically _nothing _has changed?

But everything _did _change.

I take as much as a deep breath my lungs would allow before jabbing at me, and I close the door behind me, keeping my shoes on because I know I'm not welcome here. Lamely enough, my hands slides on the walls like I'm nostalgic or something, and I sit myself on the threadbare couch, tracing imaginary patterns on the surface of the small table. With my other hand I reach under the pillow where I know I keep that inhaler of mine.. And it's gone.

Fucking _Mello. _

I'm angry enough to let a growl slip past my lips, and it's weird because I've only ever been pissed a handful of times in my entire dying life, but _growling _makes me feel like an animal. I stand quickly from the seat and stalk off to the door, not even bothering to take with me the wires and shit, because I _swore, _didn't I, to prove _everything _to him?

"Matt," This was just _fan-fucking-tastic. Of course _he had to come out when I'm about to leave, _Of course _he had to be the one who probably kept my inhaler elsewhere. _Of course _he had to say my name without any damn _malice _that I want so much of right now.

This little voice inside my head tells me to calm down, or I'll just make my breathing conditions worse. Hell if I care. I just want so badly to _leave _right now. But I'm stupid, aren't I? I'm a prick, dick, asshole, retard, and every bloody name he's called me before. I'm Mail Jeevas, Matt, _dog.. _Call me what you want, because even _I _don't know anymore.

I don't turn to face him just yet; reasons both being me and cowardice, and I just don't have the mood for him right now. "… _What?" _I'm being rude. I'm being an asshole to him and while he deserves it, it feels so _wrong, _and I think I'm probably going to beat myself up for it later_. _But I _don't _want him to control me anymore.

It's a little over ten seconds and he doesn't answer, and I feel my patience thinning away like it was on some unraveling spool of thread. I snort derisively, and I take another step towards the door. "_Matt," _He calls me again, and I still hear no malice. Just something akin to frustration or desperation, but I'm not one as to believe that easy. _This _new Mello didn't _feel _those things, he wasn't _supposed _to. He's lying, he's lying.

And I hate it.

"Look," I tell him, "If you want to say something, just say it." My voice sounds off and breathless and my lungs ache, damn it. I'm fighting another coughing fit, and neither is losing still.

Mello comes a little closer, and I know because I can hear the fabric of his clothing rustling, and I can sense him staring holes into my back. "I just-" He hesitates, and I can hear him sigh discreetly. "Matt, look at me." But I _don't. _I _won't_ just yet. Until he gives me a good re- "_Please."_

Behind my goggles, my eyes narrow slightly, because while he sounds sincere, I don't know if I should find it in me to believe him. I turn to face him anyway, and I make sure my expression gives away nothing. My throat burns harder now, but I'm starting to pride myself with the fact that I can hold it down for _this _long.

He said _please._

I see him for the first time in a little over two weeks. And he looks a little thinner, and there were shadows under his eyes that I know hadn't been there before. And he looks at me worriedly, I think, because I've never seen him like this. But when I look him in the eyes, I can tell he's sincere this time.

-

_Because if anyone's a liar, it'd be me._

-

"Matt," he asks me, "Why are you like this?"

And I've had it. "You know what your problem is, Mello? It's _always _about _you! _You're treating me like some fucking _dog, _and I'm doing everything I can _all the time. _You never even so much as _thank me. _'Matt, shut up', 'Matt, _I'll beat Near!', '_Matt, just _fuck you!'" _And I lose my breath, and I begin another god awful coughing fit. In front of _Mello. _And I'm in a moment of damn _weakness _again. And I'm wheezing each time I inhale or exhale; I sound like a broken machine, and not a well-oiled one.

I still don't understand why Mello never replaces me for someone else. Someone more obedient, someone who never talks back, someone who never question him. What's so great about me, right? I'm just a game-obsessed smoker who's in _third _place.

"I hate you," I whisper when he's right in front of me, so close I can smell his scent of chocolate. I weakly try to push him away this time, because _I don't need his help. _I never needed it, and I won't start _now._ Not now. Not _ever._

Mello looks at me with a pained sort of expression, and he murmurs, "I know."

I don't hesitate to use my inhaler as he presses it in my palm. I send a weak glare at him but he remains unaffected, pulling me (_gently) _by the arm to the couch once more. This time he sits with me, not in his usual position, but more of a hunch as he massages his own temples. As my breathing slowly regulates, Mello looks at me again, saying almost shyly, "I wasn't sure if you'd come back."

"I'm pathetic, so of course I did." I say, frowning slightly at how dry my throat feels.

"No," Mello disagrees. "I knew that eventually, you'd need your inhaler, but I wasn't sure.. if you'd risk being here again.. Because of me." He chews on his lower lip, and this time he hangs his head lower, a motion something akin to shame. "Stay.. _please..._ I-I know I'm an ass, but we'll make this work."

I raise a brow. "Why should I?" Because I shouldn't.

"Because, Matty," he says quietly, "You're mine, okay?"

I guess this is his way of telling me he needs me. I'm not ready to forgive him just yet, but if I have my space back.. then I guess that maybe... _Maybe, _we can work this out.

-

I don't want to, but inwardly, I say '_Okay' _too.

-

_A/N: And we have M & M's again! :D For some reason, this chapter was a little hard to write. Especially that MM scene, but that could be just because romance and friendship isn't my forte. Thanks for the views, reviews, alerts and favs!_

_Uh, so what do you think? Review, please. :)_


	5. Five

_A/N: This came out _**way **_later than I ever intended. For that I'm really, really sorry._

* * *

**Always**

-

_I can't live without you._

-

-

Mello doesn't hate the world per se; he just doesn't like too many things in particular. I of all people should know. He's the type of person you'd steer clear away from because you think he gave you so little as a dirty look earlier. People say he's probably mentally unstable, and no one really wants to involve themselves with someone like Mello- it's the reason why no one really dares to approach him. Sure, Mello's social and shit, but when you see him, he's either with me, or _alone. _Always.

Maybe, he's just doesn't give a damn anymore, he _acts _like it, with his I-stepped-on-shit attitude and total disregard for most things; he just might be the reason of his own downfall someday. I'll be lying if I say his death will be pleasant, as kind of sick and twisted that sounds. Damn it, look at him.

_Mello. _It doesn't take any brainless idiot to know his name's a joke, and I'm just quoting Mello himself here. I don't blame him for that; he's the guy who blows his top off if someone so much as _breathed _in his personal space, the guy who'll go too far to get things done his own way. I don't get why he doesn't see he _can't _always win, that he _can't _always get what he wants. That he needs to lighten up a little.

But it's just another one of those little things you can't change; the sky will probably always be blue, Near will always be a know-it-all, and Mello and I will never stop coming back to each other. It's just the way things work. I'll probably never stop looking at him like I always seem to, and _I don't know why _I do. It's a heavy kind of stare I give, only when he's not looking and I'm one heck of a coward to pull this off for a decade.

I know it's because I always seem so damn _apathetic._ It's these goggles I wear- it's kind of lame, but I think they've made me who I am now, that I'm not some stupid-ass naïve kid anymore. So what if I'm not the stuttering, wire-chewing moron who's afraid of his own shadow anymore? I happen to _like _the guy I am _now. _I don't care that when I look in the mirror, I don't really see myself; I see someone no one knows. I see someone even _I_ don't know. And I don't give a damn, and I know enough I'm a hypocrite when I say Mello's changed, because I've changed too.

But I don't matter. I'm just.. _there._

I guess my eyes aren't hollow, but they don't 'sparkle' or all that crap people use to describe themselves in novels, or maybe even some of those video games I play. And my cigarette? Just hanging there between my own too dry lips like it's about to fall off- I spend only half the time actually _inhaling_ it, and I waste my own cash doing it, but as soon as it's done, I light up another one anyway, because I _don't _want to stop. It gives me a little sense of security that Mello makes a habit of destroying.

Loosing coordination, feeling always defenseless, like he _knows _every step I take. It's annoying, and disturbing, but I don't seem to mind. I'm okay with the way my heart pumps like I'm _high _when he does so little as look at me, because I blame it on being afraid that he'll abuse me or something. I'm not going to live life anyway- I'm just a survivor. Going on with life like it is, because that's all there is to it. _Take what you get; give what you got when asked for it._ Because I always end up being a puppy who's got no bark, and no bite.

Maybe he thinks I don't care in the least. That I don't care about what he's doing, or saying, or thinking, because I don't show it. He doesn't know I actually give a fuck about his telling me off and bossing me around, that I _want _to be acknowledged as a _human _for once. By _Mello, _because no one else seems to bother me as much as he does, no one seems to matter like Mello does.

Just.. _Mello._

_-_

_Just once, is that so much to ask for?_

_-_

_

* * *

_

Figuratively, I don't like where we are right now. The air of the apartment seems stuffier than it usually is, but the windows are actually _open, _for once, and I hear the rattle of the cheap, standing air conditioner in the corner, but everything seems to have gone up twenty degrees, and inside my gloves, my palms are sweating bullets. Talk about _disgusting._

If it's all in my head, then why does Mello look a little anxious? He's trying hard not to show it, and though he could've fooled anyone else, I've known _that _look for years. He's sitting a little over a foot away from me on this ratty couch, looking too stiff to be natural and I'm not sure how to take this, because Mello's supposed to be confident, right? Mello's supposed to make the first move, the first _leap _or _step _orwhatever he does.

We haven't said a single word and it's quarter of an _hour, _but it seems like the clock I moving three times slower than it usually does. It's as annoying as hell.

And my left leg fell asleep a whole ago from my lack of movement. My posture is relaxed, and I force to keep my breathing natural, like _inhale, _then _exhale, _no matter how much I want to start coughing out like shit again. I'm blatantly ignoring the heavy stare I sense coming from him. He's trying to pull something courageous maybe, something I never pulled before; looking me in the eyes.

I don't understand why he's never afraid to stare anyone down.

I've been half-expecting him to blow his top off and start beating the shit out of me, or maybe he'll act like nothing's changed and he'll just stalk back into my.. _his _room and that he'll leave me alone like he always does. But there's this little unwelcomed voice in my head that keeps reminding me, saying that I'll be wrong.

But he's _here. _With _me. _

And I don't know what to make of it. I'm staring at the pack of cigarettes I carelessly tossed on the table earlier, because I don't want to look at Mello just _yet. _I still haven't gathered the guts to, and I don't want to just _blurt _out anything. Because Mello's just acting so fucking _weird _right now, and he looks like he's been through hell and back.

Maybe, just maybe, he's already woken up to smell the chocolate. Maybe he's already starting to realize that things can't always go his way, and that he can't take me for granted, because suddenly, it's like he's starting to care for me, just a little.

He clears his throat quietly, but _way _too unnecessarily. I think my heart pounded a little faster or something, and my eyes widen slightly behind my shield-like goggles. I can tell he's nervous for some reason, and he's fidgeting and.. and _hesitating. _Like I'm some intimidating gorilla.

And knowing that he's feeling like this just heightens my own paranoia.

"So.. Matt.." he starts lamely, and he sounds rather ridiculous even _to me, _because his tone is awkward and unsure, and I'm not _used _to this. Like a cliché kind of movie, his voice seems to just echo in the apartment. Still, I smile a little despite myself, because he's _trying _this time, isn't he? "Want some coffee? I.. made some. Tastes like bitter shit, but you like that right? We could get order some Chinese."

I blink. I was right to assume Mello wasn't going to mention anything about my leaving. Kind of a sore spot between us both, I guess, so he's going to pretend my leaving never did happen. "How about we just go out for dinner?"

Mello's head snaps to me and his eyes are curious, but he lets out this awkward grin, like he's not _used _to smiling at me. "Sure. Why not?"

*

"Didn't know you had a car." Mello tells me as he slides in the passenger seat, eyes wandering in the interior of Baby interestedly, and he leans back into the leather seat and there's this high pitched squeak that comes. Then he looks to me again, and I'm still wondering why he won't stop staring at me. "It's _yours, _right? You didn't steal it or-"

I let out a sound of slight irritation, because he's going to start _rambling. _It's a habit he'd developed back at Wammy's, that he'd start rambling, rudely, at that, whenever he'd be nervous, no matter how _rare _that occasion was. "Yeah, my Baby," I confirm, and I turn the key in the ignition, inwardly enjoying the way the engine purred.

I don't say anything else- I'm never much of a talker anyway, and we both know this. Beside me, Mello closes his eyes, and he starts chewing at his bottom lip. I'm half tempted to ask where his regular bars of chocolate were, because all this short while I've seen him, he hadn't pulled out a single one, and it's nothing short of weird. "Can we turn on the radio?"

Because the silence isn't a comfortable one, and we're still as nervous as hell, but it never does show, and we never acknowledge that, do we? I get it, Mello. From the rigged up steering wheel, I click a few random buttons, because I hardly did try out Baby for any other reason than driving, but the voices comes out from the radio anyway.

"_.. Should we really go against Kira? Ever since he became known, crimes have reduced by-.." _I change the station.

"Matt!" he hisses beside me, "Go back! I was listening to that, idio-!" He cringes abruptly, stiffening because I know he's realized what he was about to say. He clenches, then unclenches his fists, over and over, and he takes a few deep breaths, like he's on anger management. The idea's a little funny. Mello clears his throat _again, _and he says a little quietly. "Never mind. Listen to whatever."

I give only slight indications that I even heard him speak; my foot steps harder on the gas pedal, the meter reading well over a hundred twenty now, and my hands tighten ever so slightly on the steering wheel. Finally, I mutter, "I thought you wanted to listen to the other station." I give him a deadpan glance that he can't see. "I don't mind, really. But why the sudden change?"

It's obvious why, and even if I already _know _why, I want to hear it from him. I don't give a fuck about my _walking on thin ice, _or whatever the hell people want to call it, because he said we'll work this out, won't we? I know he'll eventually snap and yell at me like I'm the lowest form of dirt in his highness' presence, but in the meantime? I'll do what I please because it feels _damn _good.

Mello grins sharply, a little too forced, and he turns his gaze to the window, but I can see his reflection easy. "You want to listen to something else," he says, "So go ahead."

My eyes narrow in the slightest, "I don't mind." And as if to emphasize my point, I change it back to the previous station, and I turn up the volume so he'd hear.

He shakes his head, but he doesn't face me. "No, I don't want to listen to that."

"Why not?" I ask for no reason, pretending to be a clueless moron, and Mello's annoyed because he knows this. He knows I'm trying to rile him up on purpose this time. "I thought you wanted to keep yourself updated on Kira? Do you want to defeat Kira or not?"

"Don't ask stupid questions," Mello hisses through gritted teeth. "Of course I do, but you don't want to listen to that damn station- you don't want to hear people talk about Kira, so what's the fucking _point?!"_

I shrug nonchalantly, and I lean back into my own seat. "What _is _the point, anyway?" I question this, and I hope he doesn't know this is about more than just the radio. "I didn't want to listen to anything. _You _were the one who wanted the radio on. I went back to the previous station like you told me to, and you say you don't want to listen to it."

Mello purposefully rests his brow against the window of my car, breathing in, then out, and then he finally growls out, "Stop being so damn _insistent. _If it's so fucking important for me to listen to that shit, then _fine!_"

Then I ask the big question. "What's your problem anyway?"

He snarls, like he's some kind of lupine animal, it's kind of unnerving. "You're trying to get me to yell! _My _problem is that _you're not even trying_ like we agreed to!"

"You're trying too hard," I state blandly, "Trying hard enough it's so damn unnatural and downright creepy. Trying hard enough you don't give enough for _me _to try, so you'd do it all by yourself." I park the vehicle easily. "You were acting like we're both _strangers _to each other, so polite and.. Fuck, why do I have to explain myself to you?!"

In the reflection, Mello's eyes are wide and unseeing. He opens his mouth this time, and his right hand clutches at his rosary, and he whispers quietly. "At least I'm trying." I know it's not meant for me to hear, and I can't help but think that he's talking for more than just us.

*

We're in a discreet corner of some café. No, not discreet. People only stare because really, there was this guy clad in _only _leather, and there's another guy who's wearing this non-discreet fluffy as hell vest. It's kind of ironic; I'm sitting directly under a 'no smoking' sign. Across me, Mello is staring bullets at the potpourri on the table, and this means he's trying his hardest not to even look at me. That, or maybe he just doesn't like frou-frou stink.

The waitress comes and introduces herself with a smile, not at all noticing the tense atmosphere. I don't read the menus she hands out, having been here way too many times before. Mello scans the paper quickly, and then resumes his staring bullets. It's wholly immature, but it's _Mello _for you.

"Three slices of chocolate cake," Mello tells her. "And a white chocolate mocha, with whipped cream."

She nods happily, and then starts scribbling away into her notepad, because apparently her memory can't allow her to remember so little as that. "And," she gives me a wink. "The usual for you, hmm?" She's already learned that my lack of response to her is some form of silent agreement, so she scribbles my order down and leaves after telling us she'll be right back with a sing-song tone too.

"I didn't know you came here often," Mello says quietly after a while, his right hand still fiddling with his rosary. He lets out a breath of _I'm not sure what, _and he runs his free hand through those blond locks of his. "I didn't even know you went out more now."

I give him a noise of agreement. "I don't like going out, Mello, but it's not like I can stay confined forever, right?"

"You'd like that, would you?" his lips start twitching. "And back at Wammy's, you went as far as to wrestle _Roger _because you didn't want to get counseling for agoraphobia."

"Because I'm not agoraphobic," I insist telling him, "I just have issues with everything and everyone."

Mello gives a sad kind of grin. "You have issues with me too."

I start scratching the back of my head, and I give him this stare. He's staring at me now, not directly, because of my goggles, but I know we can feel each other's gaze. Maybe we can be diagnosed with ESP, or maybe we just know each other too well. "Yeah."

His blue eyes look kind of hurt for a moment, but it must've been another one of my delusions, because it's gone now. "Yeah," he echoes me, "You're not the same as you used to be. I'm no different than anyone else anymore, right?"

I want to say _'You are, Mello. And that's why I have issues with _you _the most'. _I want to say he's actually my priority, because I don't know what I'm here for, and I don't need anyone else. I want to say that while he's no good for me, I can't seem to walk away for the final time, then ask him why can't he leave me be? I want to know why we always come back to each other.

Because we're not co-dependent. Because we don't need people to run our lives for us. Because he's _Mello. _And I'm _Matt._

But instead, I say, "Right."

"You're still my best friend, Matt," he tells me in a serious tone, and he leans forward in the chair suddenly, and the rosary just dangles from his neck as he presses both his palms on the glass table. "Even if we're not the same anymore. You're still Matt, and I'm still.. _I'm still _me!"

"You think so, Mello."

-

_Because like you said.. we're not the same anymore._

_I'm still Matt, and you're still you.. _

_But Mello.._

-

_Do you like who you see when you see yourself?_

_-_

Do you see youself?

-

* * *

_A/N: So.. how was that? I'm not much of a conversationalist, nor do I talk much for that matter, but.. uh, if any part of their conversation comes awkward and unnatural-like, you can blame it on that fact right there. I got another question; do you think I'm taking too long in beginning the actual romance? Because I think some character development and they do have to patch things up with themselves.. just asking. _

_Shameless self-advertisement! Check out my other Death Note fics; _**Everything and Nothing**_ (another MM one) and _**Adrenaline Rush**_ (which I'm nervous about because it's Mello/OC)_

_Oh! I have a little challenge- can anyone guess the period/time/approximated date when this chapter took place? _

_*Showers you all with cookies and M&M's* Thanks, for all the views, reviews, alerts, PMs, and Favs. _

_I have so many views.. just wish I had more reviews._


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